


A Heart Should Always Go One Step Too Far

by fingalsanteater



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dry Sex, Gaslighting, M/M, Nonconathon Treat, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:31:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/pseuds/fingalsanteater
Summary: Stan’s not a perfect tabula rasa, but like a crossword puzzle where only some of the words are filled in and some of the ink on the page is smeared. Ford has always been good at crossword puzzles, and there’s no easier puzzle than his brother.





	A Heart Should Always Go One Step Too Far

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).



There was a sense of unfairness that Ford couldn't shake: why was Stan allowed to essentially unburden himself of his sins while Ford remained weighted down with the sixty plus years of his brother's mistakes?  
  
It was cathartic to tell Stanley it was all his fault.  
  
After all, it was his fault. This time, Stan didn't have the foreknowledge to turn it around, to blame Ford for what? Wanting to be something? Wanting to escape the confines of the unsatisfactory, childish plan for their life that Stan had been set on because he had no better prospects?  
  
"It was your fault, I'm sorry to say," Ford tells him, though he isn’t sorry to say it at all.  
  
Stan takes it in stride.  
  
"What'd I do? Wreck your little machine on purpose?" He asks wryly, eyebrow cocked like he almost didn't believe it.  
  
"Yes," Ford says, watching Stan's face fall. A sick sense of satisfaction makes him want to bare his teeth, go for the throat. "Yes, Stanley, you maliciously ruined my chances for admission to my dream school because you couldn't - " He wants to say that Stan couldn't bear to let him go, because that was truth. Even Ford knows that. He thinks he even said something like that, all those years ago.

However, it is appealing in a strange way that makes Ford’s stomach twist into a knot to think of how much Stan cared for him, so much that he’d do anything to keep him close. Ford’s spent enough time alone these thirty odd years and the idea of Stan’s once suffocating and stifling love of him has become almost desirable once again, as it had been when they were children and only had each other.

"I couldn't what? Let you run off without me?" Stan laughs, thinking he has made a joke instead of hitting on the truth.  
  
"That's right," says Ford flatly. "You couldn't let me go."

Stan stops laughing. Ah, well. Ford was never good with a punchline. That was always Stan’s forte.  
  
"I guess it makes sense," Stan finally says, scratching at his jaw with his thumbnail in an idle, nervous gesture.  
  
"You needed me," Ford adds, for good measure.  
  
Stan slugs him gently on shoulder and said, "Speak for yourself, knucklehead."  
  
It’s easier to speak for Stan.

* * *

Ford can’t get the idea of Stan needing him out of his mind.

“Do you remember,” he says over breakfast one morning, “how you used to call me and hang up when I answered?”

Stan is taking a sip of coffee and he sputters a bit, coughing. Ford’s not actually sure if those calls were Stan, but it’s the best conclusion he’s come up with. At one time, he thought it was Bill trying to unnerve him, but, in hindsight, he can’t see how that is possible. It had to be Stan.  

When Stan finally gets himself under control, he asks, “I never at least asked if you had Prince Albert in a can?”

“They weren’t crank calls, Stanley.”

Stan pokes at the eggs on his plate and snorts quietly, watching the runny yolk eek out and mingle with splats of Tabasco sauce on the solid egg white. Ford watches Stan scrunch his face up, wrinkles deepening on his forehead, in between his brow and around his mouth. They’re the kind of wrinkles that say Stan has done a lot of thinking in his sixty plus years.        

“I don’t remember that,” Stan says after a few minutes, looking back up at Ford with askance. He wants Ford to fill in the blanks. Ford knows what he will say next, but he hesitates, pretending to consider his next words.

“Well, spit it out, Sixer,” Stan says after a moment, impatient. “I’m the one who’s the blank slate here. You’re the one with all the answers.”

Stan’s not a perfect _tabula rasa_ , but like a crossword puzzle where only some of the words are filled in and some of the ink on the page is smeared. Ford has always been good at crossword puzzles, and there’s no easier puzzle than his brother.  

“You want to know why you called me?” Ford asks.

Stan just rolls his eyes.

“For the same reason you did a lot things, Stanley,” says Ford. “You needed me. And,” he pauses, swallows against the dryness of his mouth, tongue sandpapery and tasting of stale coffee. “And, you missed me. You wanted to hear my voice.”

“How d’ya figure that?” Stan’s face is scrunched again.

“I don’t ‘figure.’ You told me that’s why you did it,” Ford says.

“Oh. That’s – that’s sure something,” is all Stan can say in return. After a beat, his chair squeaks against the linoleum and he pushes away from the table. He leaves Ford to finish breakfast alone. Now Ford is the one furrowing his brow, thinking.

* * *

Of course, Stan never told him any such thing. He didn’t have to. Ford knows his brother better than Stan even knows himself now.

Ford thinks about the easy way Stan touches him, how he’s never afraid to pull Ford into a tight hug or bump their shoulders together or sit a little too close. Stan’s so obvious about what he wants that Ford can’t believe it took him this long to realize. It’s clear the taboo was obscuring his vision, but give him thirty years of dimension hopping into worlds where incest was the least weird thing that was acceptable and he’s all but said good-bye to any part of himself that feared breaking this universe’s mores.   

He can’t deny the years he and Stanley spent surreptitiously watching each other as teens, when he’d envy a bead of sweat rolling down Stan’s spine in the summer heat and wonder what it’d be like to apply his mouth there and lick it away. He knows with a fierce certainty that Stan had the same thoughts, though he is having trouble recalling a specific instance that he caught his brother staring. But, he remembers rough-housing that became heated, became so intimate at times that Ford had to pull away or risk revealing his inappropriate erection. Stan had never pressed the issue of Ford suddenly crying “uncle” and retreating to hide in the bathroom or in his bunk, so he must have been suffering in the same way.             

He finds Stan later that day, sitting on the musty porch couch and, based on the cans of beer littering the deck, about seven cans down. Ford doesn’t know how long he’s been drinking, so he’s not sure if he’s drunk or just been riding a buzz all afternoon. The sunlight is waning, filtering fine as mist through the trees as it sets, and the insects are screaming a discordant melody, a dirge for the dying of the light and a welcome song for the dark.

“You want one?” Stan sloshes his beer towards Ford, then tips the rest into his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Ford says. He doesn’t say that, over the course of the last hour, he’s had four over-filled shots of the tequila that Stan keeps in the back of the pantry. If Stan looks any time soon he’ll see the dust on the bottle has been smudged by a six-fingered hand.

He wavers, stands in the threshold of the doorway and watches Stan toss away his empty can. He doesn’t immediately crack open a new one, instead looking at Ford, waiting for him to make up his mind.

After a moment, Ford drops down on the couch next to him, purposefully close. Their shoulders touch and heat suffuses Ford like the descending sun has decided to set in his body. He leans into it, turns his head and presses his face to Stan’s jaw, presses his lips to his skin, catching on the stubble peppering his cheek.

“Whoa! What the hell?” Stan, startled, shifts away just enough to break contact. Ford lets him for now.

“I know we’ve not been intimate in, well. In quite a long time, but, Stanley, please don’t tell me you don’t remember,” Ford says.

Stan’s eyes are wide and watery behind his glasses when he finally dares to look at Ford.

“Okay,” he says, “I won’t.”

Ford has to force himself not to smile, but the fact that Stan has not high-tailed it to the trees by now bodes well for him. For them.

“Stanley, don’t lie to me,” Ford says miserably, hoping he’s not laying it on too thick. There’s blurring the truth, which is what he’s doing, and outright lying, which is what he’s trying to avoid. It’d be better if he could just show Stan what he knows Stan’s always wanted in the back of his mind.

There’s no reason why he can’t just say that, so he does. He takes Stan’s hand, caresses the sun warm skin with his thumb.

“Will you let me remind you?” He asks, bringing Stan’s hand to his mouth and kissing his knuckles so there will be no chance of Stan misconstruing his meaning.

Stan’s at a loss for words, gaping at Ford like a fish. Ford cups his jaw in his hand and leans in again, brushing them first chastely against Stan’s, stealing away his ability to speak in this moment – if he had anything to say – stealing the breath from his very lungs as Stan gasps and Ford chases the sharp intake of air, pressing harder against his mouth and running his tongue over Stan’s slick bottom lip.

He wants to push a step further, but he pulls back, giving Stan a chance to ruminate over what Ford has presented to him.

“Let’s, uh, maybe take this inside. And talk,” Stan finally says, knees cracking as he pushes up from the couch.

Ford follows him into the house, to the kitchen, where Stan opens the pantry and pulls out the tequila. He eyes the bottle with a strange smile, then pulls down two shot glasses from the cabinet. There’s about twenty in there, all from various tourist traps and definitely palmed by Stan’s sticky fingers.

He pours them both a shot. “How many is this for you? Six? Seven?” He asks as he hands Ford’s over.

“Only five. I didn’t realize you kept track of your liquor so closely,” Ford says. “Dad did that, remember?”

Stan shudders. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I do remember that for some unholy reason.”

He downs his shot and slaps the glass on the counter.

Coughing a little at the burn, Stan says, “I wasn’t keeping tabs on my liquor. I could –” He pauses. “Are you going to drink that?” He asks instead of finishing his sentence. Ford swallows it and slaps the glass on the counter same as Stan.

Stan says, just a little hesitantly, “I could, uh – fuck – I could taste it on you and I guessed,” He sighs. “I don’t remember this.” He gestures between the two of them. “I should remember this, right? It seems like a pretty goddamn big and _weird_ thing to forget. How can I remember Pa and his goddamned brandy and not – not the fact that I apparently used to what? Fuck my own brother?”

Ford steps a little closer, puts his hand on Stan’s hip. “It was some time ago. When we were teenagers. I don’t blame you for forgetting.” 

There’s no reason for him to go further tonight, but he’s eager to confirm he’s on the right track. He could let Stan think it over, get comfortable with the idea, but he impatiently kisses him again, this time cradling the back of Stan’s skull, threading his fingers through his thick hair and holding him in place.

Stan is shocked still, his mouth unyielding to Ford despite his insistence. It’s no matter, as Ford moves to Stan’s jaw, biting kisses into the soft, stubbly skin. He uses the grip on Stan’s hair to tilt his head and get at his neck, attempting to suck a bruise into his flesh. His hand on Stan’s hip moves to Stan’s ass and he pulls him closer, pressing his growing erection against him. Stan’s not hard, but Ford assumes he’s still getting warmed up to the idea of this step forward in their relationship.

“Ford, hey,” Stan says. Ford ignores him in favor of using his hips to push Stan up against cabinets.

Stan tries again. “Sixer, wait just a - I thought we were gonna talk about this first -” Ford kisses him into silence.

“I thought you were going to let me show you,” Ford counters, lips moving against the skin just to the side of Stan’s mouth. He doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want Stan tell him he’s wrong before Ford gets the chance to show him he’s right.

“It’s just, ah –” Ford has slipped his hand in his boxers, caressing the smooth skin of his hip. He pulls back enough to get a better angle so he can palm Stan’s dick, which is just a bit beyond soft.

Stan curses when Ford touches him, brings his hands up to Ford’s shoulders like he’s going to push him away. But he doesn’t. He stares at Ford, brow furrowed, mouth parted slightly. He stares, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, damp undershirt sticking to his skin, and Ford feels like Stan is seeing straight through him, the truth of Stan’s own forgotten desire reflected back.

“You really want this, don’t you?” Stan asks. It’s a strange question, since they both want this and it’s Stan who had reminded Ford that they could have this.  

Ford responds by kissing him again, and this time, finally, Stan opens tentatively to him. His body begins to relax fractionally, though he’s still more tense than Ford would like. He slides his tongue into Stan’s mouth and his hands down Stan’s sweaty back, finding the hem of his shirt and slipping underneath it to caress his skin.

He’s been on edge for what feels like forever and he could be content to just rub off, fully clothed, against Stan’s thigh or hip, but that isn’t what Stan needs. No, he promised he would show him.

“I want you to fuck me,” Ford says. Stan’s hands, still on his shoulders, squeeze him almost painfully.

“Jesus Christ, Ford,” Stan curses. “I don’t thi – Right now? Really?”

Ford tells him, “It’s the best way. It’s how we… did it the first time. Maybe recreating the memory will help you.”

Stan groans. “Don’t tell me we fucked up against the kitchen counter too.”

“We didn’t,” Ford says, but doesn’t elaborate, not interested in reliving a memory he’d have to cut from whole cloth. He’s desperate for Stan’s hands on him in places other than his shoulders, but he’s not so far gone that he can beg.

He pushes Stan’s boxers down his thighs, eliciting more colorful cursing from Stan. Stan’s own cock is still mostly soft, so Ford drops to his knees and wraps his lips around it, sucking it into his mouth, working it with his tongue until it begins to swell.

Stan buries his hands in Ford’s hair, tugs at it, lets Ford suck him and work him with his hand until his cock is full and red and sloppy with saliva. Ford can almost come at just the notion that he was the one to do this to Stan, the one who made Stan moan in pleasure and tense his fingers against Ford’s scalp.

“Fuck,” Stan says, as Ford rises to his feet and begins to undo his own belt and push his pants and underwear off his own hips. “Can’t we just –” Ford brings two of Stan’s fingers to his mouth and sucks them. “We could just – we don’t have to…” He chokes on his words.

“It has to be this way,” Ford says when he takes Stan’s fingers from his mouth.

“Goddamn it, Sixer,” Stan says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Goddamn you – you – you fucking self-righteous...”

Ford doesn’t know what that means or why Stan feels the need to insult him in this moment, but Stan’s hands are finally on the bare skin of his hips and he manhandles him into position, bending him uncomfortably over the counter. He hears Stan spit on his hand and then his wet fingers are pressing against Ford’s asshole, one pressing in and another not soon after. It burns and it stings and it feels so fucking good.

“Is this what you want?” Stan asks. He sounds so angry, though Ford doesn’t understand why he should be.

Ford pushes back against his fingers and moans something that sounds like a yes. Stan pulls his fingers out then spits on his hole and presses back in with three fingers, making Ford cry out more in pain than in pleasure. But, the pain soon subsides and pleasure returns, just in time for Stan to pull out again, this time replacing his fingers with his thick cock. He fucks into Ford without hesitation, presses past the resistance and sinks deep into him with a grunt.

The air is pressed from Ford’s lungs and he can’t even gasp, can’t take a breath; he’s strangled by the feel of Stan’s cock inside him, by the pressure of it, the overwhelming pleasure and pain of it, by the emotion that rises up in him over the fact that he’s succeeded in making Stan realize that he’s always wanted this himself. His own cock, long untouched but for when he thrust his hips against Stan’s, twitches and jerks and he wants to touch himself, but he’s supporting his weight against the counter top.

Instead, he says, “Touch me, please.”

Stan doesn’t, not right away. He fucks Ford fast and hard, pounding into him. Ford wishes he could see his face, wonders if he’s fucking him so hard because he’s just realized how bad he needed Ford in this way and he’s making up for lost time. He doesn’t come quick, though, it takes long enough that Ford starts to hurt, muscles trembling and dick aching. But, when Stan does come, it’s with an almost pained groan. He fills Ford up, pausing just to take a few shaky breaths before pulling out.

“Come here,” he demands, and turns Ford back around to face him. Ford’s cock is hard between them, and it only takes a few strokes of Stan’s hand, coupled with the stretched burn of his ass leaking Stan’s come, to make Ford come himself. It splatters on Stan’s hand, his undershirt, Ford’s sweater. He buries his face in Stan’s shoulder, leaning against him as his knees shake and legs tremble. He thinks Stan must be trembling too because it can’t just be Ford that is feeling this much.

When Ford finally catches his breath, he takes a good long look at Stan, whose cheeks are pinked with exertion and who wears a frown that should not be there.

Ford can’t help himself. “Did that help you remember? Anything at all?” He asks. He holds his breath, waiting for Stan’s reply.

After a long moment, Stan answers. “Yeah,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “I think it did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Go Places," by The New Pornographers.


End file.
